Soulless
by Oxygen.and.Cucumber
Summary: Runner Up of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Cullen Contest - "If I kill you, it's not intentional. I promise." One part of him wanted to love her. The other, darker, murderous, more lustful side of him wanted her life. AH/AU
1. Velvet Skin

**Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Cullen Contest**

**Pen name: **Oxygen. and .Cucumber

**Title: **Soulless

**Word Count: **5,118

**Rating:** M

**Summary: **Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Cullen contest - "If I kill you, it's not intentional. I promise." One part of him wanted to love her. The other darker, muderous, more lustful side of him wanted her life. AH/AU

* * *

_Not that I dreamed of resuscitating him; the bare idea of that would startle me to frenzy: no, it was in my own person that I was once more tempted to trifle with my conscience; and it was as an ordinary secret sinner that I at last fell before the assaults of temptation._

Henry Jekyll's Full Statement of the Case, Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde

* * *

His face was completely shrouded in darkness, the single, grey hood falling past his eyes, and his footsteps continued to beat rhythmically against the pavement, breaking the once undisturbed silence.

A cigarette wouldn't have looked out of place between his lips, but if one was brave enough to glance at him, they would have noticed there was nothing there. His cracked mouth was empty, breath being the only thing to pass from it, and for him, speech was a rarity.

The smoke billowing out of the nearby bar twisted and turned in the night sky, and he changed his intentions almost immediately, instead, making a start towards the open door of the building. Passing under the doorway, his expression hardened, his eyes becoming even colder; if that was possible.

Drinks littered the top of the bar, but he ignored them, his mind focused on just one place in the building; the room at the back.

A tall, burly man was standing at the doorway; one that he had recognised on countless occasions as McCarty. Upon seeing him, his hand reached into the inside of his jacket, and he pulled out a handful of notes – before pressing them into McCarty's open palms.

The man's eyebrows raised in appreciation, before he pushed the door ajar in response.

No words had to be exchanged between the two men. Both knew what they wanted – him the cash, and easy money, the other the release.

As the door swung shut behind him, the man slowly pushed his hood down. The room was dark, and the lack of light acted as the cause of the man's ease; he didn't have the fear of being recognised here. His eyes scanned the room briefly, adjusting to the dimness.

He didn't have to speak to know that he wasn't alone.

The man could hear her laboured breathing with the constant rising and falling of her chest, and as his eyes flickered towards the mattress in the middle of the floor, a low and almost inaudible hum of contentment sounded at the back of his throat.

The rest of his clothing shed easily, and he crawled his way towards her, his cold hands ghosting across her bare skin. As his cold fingers met her calf, she whimpered quietly in reply. Her response, combined with fear and an irrational desire that she couldn't repress, fuelled his actions, and he reached roughly for the back of her neck.

He brushed his lips across hers, his eyes becoming dark with hunger.

"If I kill you, it's not intentional. I promise."

* * *

Anthony Masen cracked the lid of the can open, and passed it towards his friend, Jasper Whitlock. The thin scar cut into the right side of his face meant nothing to Jasper – and having known Anthony since university – the scar, which had at first made him apprehensive of Anthony's character, was now something he barley even noticed.

The television was flashing through the adverts in the living room, and as the two, with drinks in their hand, moved towards the sofas, Anthony searched around for the remote.

"Today a woman was found dead in East London, her body identified as Rosalie Hale. She was found in a dustbin, concealed in a black bin liner. Police at the scene say this could be the work of a man behind the cause of the death in Scotland only three weeks ago. They are currently searching for the suspect and although..."

Jasper frowned, before suggesting casually. "Turn it off?" He took a sip out of his drink to distract himself. "I'm not sure about you, but I'd prefer not to listen to all the gory details."

Anthony quickly pressed the off button on the remote, his eyes sincere. "It's horrible to think someone would do that."

Jasper's face paused, the can hesitating against his lips as a black screen appeared on the television. His face was full of uncertainty, and slowly, he turned to face Anthony. Two overheard words from the newsflash had caught him off guard.

"Didn't we know Rosalie Hale?"

He pursed his lips in response. "The name doesn't ring a bell."

Jasper stared at the door for a short moment, collecting his thoughts as he struggled to remember where he recognised her from.

Then suddenly, it clicked.

"She was the girl that turned you down in fourth grade."

Anthony pulled a face. "Leave it up to you to bring that topic up again." He too took a sip out of the can in his hands. "Besides, let's hope for her sake it's a different person."

Jasper nodded in agreement, a silence quickly falling between the two friends. Anthony pursed his lips, before taking a sip from the can.

Something was bothering him... something that had been jogged by Jasper's subtle reminder about the girl on the television.

Moments like this didn't happen often, but when they did, they didn't just subside. Fear would form from the lingering doubt, and the most frightening part of the fear, was his ignorance. He was afraid, partly because of the brutality behind the young girl's fate... but more pressingly, he was afraid because he had absolutely no recognition of what he'd done last night, or where he'd been.

"Who's the woman I saw next door this morning?" Jasper asked quietly, his voice diverting Anthony from the thoughts that refused to disappear easily. At his words, Jasper glanced out of the window, searching the garden next door to see if she was there – but she must have left.

"Mr Harrison moved out two weeks ago," Anthony explained quietly, his eyes subdued and cautious. "I'd assume that she's my new neighbour."

The corners of Jasper's lips twitched, almost as if he were preventing a smile from appearing there. "Did you think of going over and introducing yourself?" he suggested, his voice smug.

Anthony threw Jasper a dark look. "You are just as bad as Alice."

"And by that you mean..."

"You know all too well what I mean," Anthony stated assuredly. "You both have the strange belief that I'm unable to find a woman on my own, and thus you've taken the task upon yourself." He glanced towards his friend, daring him to disagree. "I'll have you know I was planning on visiting her later on."

"Well then, that's good."

Anthony shook his head, and laughed quietly to himself. His sister and his friend couldn't have been a better match for each other.

Just as Anthony was about to take a sip out of his drink, the pager strapped to his waist began beeping. He sighed in frustration, and sent Jasper an apologetic look as he flipped the lid of the pager up.

"Jasper-"

"Don't worry about it," he cut Anthony off quickly. Life working at a hospital wasn't the easiest of careers, and he'd remembered the stress Anthony went through at university with his degree. But it was what he'd wanted to do, and only a stupid man would have tried to stop him. "Alice wanted me back by three anyway."

"If you're sure..."

"I'm positive," Jasper said firmly as he set his can down on the table. "Now go save some lives, and I'll give you a call this evening about the camping trip."

Anthony grabbed his coat from the peg behind the door, attempting to apologize one last time to Jasper before they parted. Unfortunately for him it didn't work, and Jasper jumped into his car, reminding him again that he'd call this evening.

Anthony sighed, shaking his head as he fought back a grin that was threatening to spread across his face. He missed having the time to spend with friends, or just the chance to sit down for a good hour without being disturbed.

It wasn't that he disliked his job in anyway. On the contrary, it was what made him get up in the morning, knowing that today; someone's life would be better off because of him.

But physically, he was weak because of it.

He felt constantly tired, almost as if he hadn't slept at all – and over the past few weeks, he was beginning to have more and more doubts that it wasn't the long hours at the hospital to blame. The dark circles under his eyes that never seemed to disappear – even at the weekends – confused him even further. At the weekends he slept as much as was possible, and every morning, the purple marks hadn't faded away over night.

"Dr. Masen," a woman approached him, a clean white file in her hands. "Dr. Cheney wanted your help in room 27." She passed the file towards him, her speech clear and precise.

He nodded once, dismissing her as he opened the file, his eyes scanning over the information.

_Isabella Swan, 24 years old, appears to have fractured both tibia and fibula in the right leg, knee cap shattered, ankle also looks damaged – awaiting x-ray for news. _

After the diagnosis of her condition, there was a clearly typed address, the house number being just one after his own.

"Thank God you're here," Dr. Cheney burst out of the hallway before Anthony could make it to the correct room. "I have two patients on floor six that need surgery and I really don't have time for this. I'm sorry to bother you, but-"

"It's no problem," Anthony cut him off quickly, sending him a brief smile before continuing towards room 27. Besides, it would give him a chance to get to know his neighbour a little better.

He pushed open the door, his eyes immediately narrowing as he entered the room. It was dark; the only light a small bulb lamp on the table.

Had they had a power cut?

He turned back towards the door, his eyes glancing across the wall for the light switch. Then, the noise of someone breathing reached his ears.

He wasn't alone.

Finally he found the light switch, and he flicked it on, his eyes wincing at the intensity of the light switch. And there, directly opposite him, was a woman lying on the bed, her eyes closed from the light.

"Was there a reason why you were sitting in the dark?" he joked lightly as he made his way towards her. He pulled up a chair, before sitting down next to her as he waited patiently for her to eventually meet his gaze.

Slowly, she opened her eyes, and Anthony couldn't help but be struck by the fear deep within them. Was she afraid of _him_?

"The man before turned it off accidentally as he left," she explained cautiously, a pale blush lining her cheekbones. As she reached up to push her hair back behind her ear, Anthony couldn't help but be struck by how beautiful the woman really was. And she just happened to be lying on the bed, immobile, helpless and completely in his power .

Did he usually think like this?

"I tried to get up and turn it back on, but-"

"No," Anthony said firmly. "Dr. Cheney thinks you've fractured two bones in your leg, so I need you to stay as still as possible. Moving isn't really an option at the moment."

"Right," she stated, annoyance lacing her voice. "No movement."

He bit back a smile as he turned towards her leg. Tentatively, he reached out and ran a hand slowly along her calf. She flinched at the gesture.

Were his hands cold?

He began probing along the outside of her leg, and around her ankles. Some parts were tender, some were as hard as marble, and as he hit one point near her ankle, she whimpered quietly in reply.

"Did that hurt?" he asked her carefully, his voice concerned.

She didn't have the words to speak. Instead, she bit down on her lip and nodded quickly.

Anthony's eyes flashed towards her lips, blood red and glistening against the fierce hospital light, and he gulped, forcing himself to stare back at her leg. It was pale and smooth, and unintentionally and almost instinctively, he ran his hand back along her calf again.

He didn't mean to do that.

"I'm going to get some plaster for it," he forced himself to say the words, and to make a reason for him to get out of the room as quickly as possible. "I'll be back in a minute."

Then, pushing himself away from the bed she was lying across, her chest rising at a quicker pace as he stood up, he half-ran out of the room.

Whatever the fuck was going on with him, he needed to sort it out. He'd been working as a doctor for the past five years – ever since he'd graduated – and never once had he felt this... uncontrollable _longing _towards a patient. Never once had he wanted to touch them more than medically... and it frightened him.

His hands fumbled against the plastic covering the plaster, and he cursed quietly under his breath. A small line of sweat fell down the side of his face, and he cursed once more, wiping it away with a hurried gesture.

He needed to get a grip.

He needed to forget about the beautiful woman lying in the room next door and the all-too-disturbing thoughts suddenly coursing through his mind. He had two fractured bones to put in a splint.

With the plaster in his hands, Anthony made his way back to the room, his face now set in the exact same calm, and relaxed state that it had been earlier on today. His composure wavered as she offered him a tentative smile across the room.

"I'm going to put your leg into a plaster splint," he spoke towards her leg, not having the courage to meet her gaze. "Then, I'm going to arrange an appointment for you with an orthopaedic doctor, and they'll make sure your bones heal properly."

"An orthope.. what?"

"A bone specialist," he clarified, hesitantly glancing towards her curious, brown eyes. His gaze travelled from her eyes to the light pink shading across her cheek, and then down to the slender, fragile neck, and-

Her gasp distracted him.

As he looked back up towards her face, quickly hiding his guilt at looking far lower than he should have done, he saw that her own eyes were staring directly at the scar on his right cheek.

They weren't far away from each other, and very slowly, she closed the distance, pressing her fingers gently against the crescent shaped mark on his face.

"How..."

He was frozen in his seat, his hand tightening around the plaster – simply because of the basic fact that she was _touching _his face. Her fingers were so close to his lips, and it would have taken just one movement for him to pull them into his mouth, his lips closing gently around them.

He jerked his face back away from her fingers, fear rising in the pit of his stomach.

A year ago, he was in control of his own thoughts. He could have sat in the same room as her, perhaps he would have noticed the smooth wave of her brown hair, or the deep raw beauty behind her brown eyes – but nothing more. He would have been struck by her innocence, and after tending to her leg, he'd have chatted casually to her, before subtly asking her out for dinner.

But now, everything was different... and he had no idea why.

He forced his fingers to relax on the plaster, and he shook himself, quickly regaining the composure he'd lost. "Isabella, if I could ask you to move back slightly so I-"

"My name's Bella." She interrupted him.

"Bella," he breathed in confirmation, and he stared at the plaster in his hands as she consented to what he'd ask. Once her back was straight against the raised bed, he took a step towards her leg, and lifted it gently off the pillows that it had been elevated on.

Her skin was as smooth as velvet under the pads of his fingers, and as he tentatively began to wrap the plaster around her leg, he could feel the Goosebumps slowly forming on her leg.

"So _Bella_," he took a deep breath, shaking out his nerves from his voice. "What made you move in next door?"

"Next door?" she raised an eyebrow curiously towards him.

Finding the small amount of confidence still lingering in the pit of his stomach, he sent her a warm, friendly smile. "I'm your new neighbour. I live at number 17."

Recognition suddenly dawned on her face, and she returned his smile almost instantly. "It'll be good to know a face on the street," her voice sounded grateful. "The family living on the other side of me didn't look too welcoming."

"That's the Newton's," he explained, finding that the more he tried to hold a conversation with her and keep his eyes directly focused on the work at hand; plastering up her leg – the easier it was for him to pretend that he had just one frightening thought dominating his mind. "As soon as they realise that you aren't out to steal their garden furniture, they'll back down."

She laughed quietly, the sound vibrating against her throat. His smile tightened at the sound, his teeth gritting at the effort of controlling his own actions.

"I have to say their garden gnome did look rather appealing."

He laughed tentatively with her, grateful that she didn't notice the uneasiness lingering behind the sound. "I wouldn't mention that to Jessica. Every morning before work, Mike kicks it over. When Jessica goes out to get the post she puts it right again."

"They sound like quite a pair."

He laughed again, his fingers slowly pulling the last of the plaster over her leg. "I'd also suggest making sure that you're out of town when they're arranging a dinner party."

"That bad?"

"That bad," he confirmed jokingly as he moved towards the cupboard opposite the room. Turning away from her, he was thankful for the minute amount of space to collect his thoughts – even if she was still sitting metres away from him.

He pulled out a pair of crutches from the cupboard. "I trust you know how to use these?"

"I grew up using them," she said with a slight roll of her eyes. Cautiously, he passed the crutches towards her, taking care not to let his fingers brush against hers.

For a moment she fumbled with them, slotting her hands hastily into the circular arm holes. Then, she placed the crutches on the ground, and attempted to lift herself off the bed.

Her body began to fall backwards, and instinctively he reached out and caught her.

"Sorry, I-"

"My fault."

They spoke at the same time, their faces barely inches away from each other. It would have taken just one inch further for his lips to touch hers, his hands to run through her hair, his body to press against hers...

He pulled her up into a standing position, his hands fisting around her shirt in an attempt to control himself. Her breathing hitched at the gesture, and the more her chest rose, before suddenly falling, the more her shirt began to open.

"Obviously you're out of practice," he breathed hurriedly, taking a step back from her as soon as her foot and crutches were safely on the ground. Behind his back, he flexed his fingers – now aching from how tightly he'd been gripping the thin material of her shirt.

_Out of practice. _He cursed inside his head, the double entendre behind his words hardly subtle. Before, he could hide the looks, the rare glances he stole towards her... but now, his thoughts were turning into his speech.

She still hadn't reacted to his words.

Her body was frozen in the same place it had last been, her eyes trained directly on his. The way she stared at him made him feel like she could hear the pounding of his heart inside of him.

"You need to rest as much as possible," he stated, his voice subdued as he took his gaze away from hers. "Put an ice pack around it if it gets bad, and keep it elevated with pillows." He willed the doctor inside of him to take over. "Do you have someone at home that could pick you up?"

Her eyes wavered. "No. My boyfriend's out of town."

Boyfriend. "Right," he replied almost immediately. She had someone else. "Well, I'll just see if I'm needed at all." Earlier, he'd mistaken the glances he gave her. She didn't want him. "Then if you want, I can take you back home."

The corners of her mouth rose. "Thank you."

With a slight nod of his head, he turned back towards the door and pushed his way out into the open corridor. The long empty hallway gave him a strange sense of freedom, and he took a deep breath, his constricted chest suddenly filling with air.

She had a boyfriend.

But the thought refused to leave his mind.

He couldn't imagine someone else's hands touching her, someone else kissing her. The image of another man standing over her, telling her he loved her, worshipping her with everything she deserved...

The craving he felt towards her was becoming almost ridiculous.

"Dr. Cheney?" Anthony saw the man about to enter into another room, his expression harried and agitated. Dr. Cheney stopped as he saw Anthony. "I just looked after the lady in room 27, and I was wondering if it would be alright for me to disappear back home now. Unless there's anything else you need."

"Not that I know of," Dr. Cheney smiled towards him. "Crowley took care of the last lot, so you're free to go."

"Thank you sir," Anthony smiled back, trying not to think of the twenty minute car journey alone with her.

"No, thank you. We needed the help." Dr. Cheney through him one last smile before entering the room, the door swinging shut behind him.

Anthony's footsteps were unhurried as he made his way back towards Bella. He needed to focus on the fact that she was his patient, and he was her doctor. Nothing more. All he was doing was ensuring that she got home safely, and that her leg healed the way it should do.

"Are you ready?" he asked as he pushed open the door of the room. She was still standing in the position he'd left her in, transferring her weight occasionally from her good leg to the crutches.

She paused, her face looking curiously up to his. "Just so that I can't say I got into a car with a stranger, do I get to know your name?"

"I'm Anthony," he said towards her, amusement lacing his tone as he held the door open for her. She swung through onto the hallway, her crutches clicking in the same beat with his footsteps.

"If you take out the fact that my leg's broken, this is actually kind of fun."

"Have you got any painkillers at home?" he asked quickly. "Because I can pretty much guarantee that waking up tomorrow won't be fun."

She shook her head, fighting off a smile as they passed under the final door of the building. Out in the open air, she sent a subtle glance towards the sky, her eyes dancing as she took in the clouds appearing overhead.

"You like bad weather." Anthony noted, diverting himself from image in front of him. He'd learnt from his mistakes in the room with her. As long as he kept conversation going, he couldn't merely stare at her; his eyes blinded by her beauty.

"I like rain," she corrected as he opened the car door for her.

Once they were both seated, and Bella's crutches were safely in the back, he pushed the keys into the ignition and gestured towards the radio.

"You've got free reign over the music," he said teasingly, his exuberance mainly to do with the fact that he had barely had to help her into the car. It sounded unkind – but if he had to touch her once more, his control would have been pushed to the point of breaking.

She paused on one radio station, and he groaned quietly at her choice in music.

"You have a problem with Phil Collins?" she replied, her voice equally as teasing as his had been. She pushed her hair away from her eyes, the gesture making his hands unnaturally tight against the steering wheel.

Ever part of him was hypersensitive, and just the single gesture like a quiet sigh or the falling of her shoulders as she breathed had the power to almost hypnotize him.

Driving wasn't the best situation to be in at the time.

"My mother had an obsession with him," he said, his voice restrained at the casual thought of her. Anthony then forced himself back to thinking about Bella – considering that it was the safer of the two options.

With explaining why he'd jumped her or explaining why he had tears pouring down his face... the one he'd rather tell her was obvious.

"You should see my bedroom," she joked, and he almost choked at how casually she said it. "Actually, you probably shouldn't. The amount of posters and CDs I have is ridiculous."

_You should see my bedroom. _"I can't say that I empathize."

She threw him a doubtful glance. "I'll find a way to convert you," she stated confidently. "There's only so long you can deny Phil Collins."

His eyes were tight as he answered her confidence with a sigh. His smile forced and strained. "You really do have a way with words," he put lightly, unable to cover the truth with a lie. Perhaps she'd assume that he was teasing her, and she wouldn't notice what he really meant by it. Or perhaps, she'd understand what he meant.

Perhaps she'd tell him to stop the car, and then, she'd reach over the gearstick towards him, her hands finding the buttons of his shirt as she popped them one by one. Then she'd fall onto his lap, her legs tightening around his sides – the cast no longer an issue, and she'd lean back against the steering wheel, and...

"Anthony?" she cut in. "Did you hear what I said?"

"Sorry, I spaced out for a bit there," he replied hurriedly, his fingers whitening against the same steering wheel that barely seconds ago he had imagined Bella lying on.

"Don't worry," she said with a shrug, as he turned the car onto the familiar street he'd lived on for years. She cast her eyes up to the darkening sky once more. "I hope it rains tonight."

He couldn't help but feel guilty.

His thoughts kept returning to the same dark fantasies that he thought he was above – and hers remained so completely innocent and ignorant of the shameful, uncontrollable desire he felt towards her.

"You'll be alright in the house by yourself?" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. He'd meant to make it sound concerned, but instead, it sounded more of a request for her to stay at his.

Not that he'd be complaining.

"I'm a grown woman," she said dryly. "I'm sure I can handle a bit of rain."

"I just thought, because you said your boyfriend was away, and I wanted to check–" He needed to stop talking; _now. _Despite the fact that he only had good intentions behind asking her.

She leaned across the gearstick and laid a hand gently against his arm. "Thank you for asking, and if I find a leak in the ceiling at two in the morning, you'll be the first to know."

He couldn't even find a retort for her words, because she'd _leaned _across the gearstick. She'd closed the distance between them, and her hand was on his arm.

She pushed the door of the car open, before twisting around to grab the crutches from the back seats. He didn't even realise they'd stopped.

"Thank you for the ride back home," she turned towards him before she got out, her expression grateful. "And for fixing up my leg."

"You're welcome," he replied quickly, "and I'll let you know when I've got the details about the appointment with the orthopaedic doctor."

She smiled again, her blood red lips pulling back slowly over her teeth. She fixed her brown eyes on his, then she closed the distance once more across the gearstick, and kissed him gently on his cheek.

He didn't see her get out, nor did he acknowledge the noise of his car door shutting. He didn't raise his eyes to watch her walk unsteadily towards her front door, or listen to hear for her keys dropping as she missed the lock.

She hadn't just kissed his cheek.

She'd kissed his scar.

* * *

When he finally found the strength to pull the car into his drive next door to hers, he realised his hands were shaking.

He stumbled out of the car, his hand catching on the door frame as the corner sliced into his palm. But the numbness coursing through him was so strong that he barely even felt it as the blood began appearing from the cut.

The door of his house was already open. He didn't recall leaving it unlocked... or perhaps, and a more frightening thought was that he didn't even recall unlocking it just a second ago.

His thoughts were too muddled to even begin to work out when the door had been opened. He shut the door loudly behind him, before tripping on the welcome mat, sending himself lurching into the wall. His hand reached out to steady himself, pushing against the plaster as it left a large blood red stain on the white walls.

Was it because she'd kissed him?

Impulsively, his feet pulled him upstairs, and just at the mere reminder of Bella – the brown eyed, pale faced woman with the smooth legs – his teeth grit in determination.

He wanted to fuck her.

Did he usually think like-

His inner thoughts were cut off as he smashed into the door of his bedroom, his movements clumsy and disorientated. He saw his bed opposite him, and the desire to simply collapse into the mattress would have consumed him – had it been an option.

A part of his brain, one that he had long lost control of, pulled him towards a cupboard near the darkened lampshade, and he fell to his knees in front of it.

Then, with trembling, blood-stained hands, he reached into the draw and pulled out a grey hooded jacket.

* * *

**AN - **Out of all the oneshots that I write for contests, I have decided that I'm definitely continuing this one. I have evil, evil plans for this story, and sexual tension is just way too much to write. Therefore, this story isn't finished. Not sure yet whether it will turn into a twoshot, or something more, but it isn't a oneshot. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it, and good luck to everyone in the UK who's got exams this week! I know I should have been revising instead of writing, but hey... we all need a break. XD.

Also, the Vampire Author Auction starts on January 15th, so head over to the site there then. I'm one of the authors up this year, so if anyone wants to bid on me, *crosses fingers, I would love you forever and ever and try to write you an awesome fic. *crosses fingers again*.

* * *

**Reviews = Cookies**


	2. Blood Lips

**Chapter Two**

**Blood Lips**

* * *

In one sweeping motion, he pushed the bedroom door off its hinges, black pooling in the depths of his eyes as he made his way down the curled staircase. There were pictures on the wall beside him, but he barely stopped to acknowledge them. One was of a man, similar to him, with a large deep scar across his cheek. His expression was different though, and his eyes were filled with a brightness that he, himself couldn't relate to.

Without a second thought, he tore the picture off the wall and crushed the glass beneath his fingertips. A thin trail of blood ran down his hand and then onto his wrist, leaving a cruel red path across his skin.

Once again, he barely even stopped. A flicker of a glance down towards where the shards of glass had pieced his skin... but that was all. Nothing more. No concern, or attempt to wipe away the mark.

He left the blood dripping from his fingertips.

The front door lay wide open, and as he stumbled past the faded welcome mat and onto the deserted street, his thoughts changed, finally finding some clarity amongst the confusion.

They focused on one thing, one person, one woman – one thing to be desired, but never taken; the forbidden fruit. Almost instinctively, his hands reached out in front of him, like he was moving forward to touch her brown hair... envisioning her in front of him.

How his fingertips would pull through each single strand as it rippled over his skin, warm to the touch. He'd push back the hair from her eyes, revealing two brown orbs, daring, tempting and persuasive.

As his eyes closed, focusing solely on the image of the woman, he froze on the pavement, bowing his head slightly. She was perfect; pure white teeth that pull back over blood red lips – a pale, flawless neck that follows gracefully into the rest of her torso – long, slender legs to wrap around his waist, leaving no air between the two of them.

He ran his tongue over his dry lips, tearing himself reluctantly away from the image he craved. Subconsciously, he began to put one foot in front of the other, repeating the pattern until he'd picked up a pace.

He didn't know where he was going – how could he? The former part of his mind, the one that no longer held any control, lay silent within his thoughts; dormant, almost.

He could still sense it – like a weight that refused to move, a ship with an anchor, a kite still clutched by a piece of string.

Anthony Masen was the anchor – the one voice that grounded him to reality, even if it were only by a fragile, breaking chain.

And the man resented him for it.

Across the road, a small cluster of women stumbled down the pavement, their eyes bloodshot and tired – and yet, still clouded by a haze of lust, marred with alcohol from earlier in the night. They were laughing.

The comforting silence that had once filled the street now shattered at the sound, and his skin prickled in annoyance, his jaw hardening ever so slightly. He wanted them to stop.

Without stopping to contemplate his actions, he crossed the street so that they were directly opposite him. Five females, he counted quickly. Each dangerously intoxicated, and each with darkly painted lips that rose and fell every time they laughed.

As they approached him, one timidly raised their gaze towards him, her eyes curious and searching. He stared directly back at her, leaving no room to escape. The differences were subtle, but he wasn't one to miss the finer details. He could see the way her chest began to rise a little quicker, her eyes became wider – frightened almost – and yet still too compelled to look away.

Their laughter died down suddenly.

One female whispered for her to look away. Another tugged quickly on her arm, before finally the third pushed her further into the group, hiding her from his sight.

"Hello ladies."

From the group, he heard a quiet, restrained whimper, and he could only assume that it came from the one woman whose gaze he'd held. She had dark brown hair, almost black in colour and from the glimpse he'd had of her – she was most definitely attractive.

Useable would have been a more appropriate word.

None of them spoke. If anything, they only moved further away from him, their faces paling as he came ever closer. Soon, he was barely metres away from the group.

"Your friend wouldn't need a lift home – would she?" he asked quietly, his voice deliciously gentle. He heard her footsteps falter against the cement pavement, and the image of her pulsating heart quickening in its pace made a content, satisfied smirk spread across his face.

The first in the group pushed past him, her shoulder kept away from his to avoid touching him. Her eyes focused on the floor in front of her, and he could see a small bead of sweat falling down her flushed cheek. She was ginger, a wild red head, and he could only guess that her spirit was the same.

If she hadn't been with the others, she would have been a fun catch.

"I don't mean to ask twice, but I have places to go, and if you really aren't interested..." he trailed off slyly, and before he could take another step towards the group, the red head turned to him, eyes fierce and intense.

"Piss off back to the hell hole you came from."

His smirk only grew bigger, and he appraised her with a new look in his eyes, one different from the usual coldness that dominated his expression. It oozed danger. "Feisty – I like that."

Her jaw hardened, and tightening her grip on her friends' hands, she pulled herself past the man, her eyes never once glancing towards him. As they passed his cloaked figure, he turned to watch them stumble down the street, regret churning in his stomach at not reaching out to one of them.

He wouldn't forget the red head.

As they finally disappeared around the corner, he pushed himself to keep walking again, and a single curse passed his lips at allowing himself to be distracted by females that would get him nowhere.

It was cold – a sudden, errant thought swept through his mind – just like the bitter wind that had descended upon Phoenix. He had a thin grey hooded jacket on, the pockets deep and empty. With pale hands, he pulled the collar up so that it covered his chin.

As he glanced down the street again, gathering his bearings in a brief moment, he spotted a single, distinctive building beside the crossroads. Smoke pushed out of the chimney and into the coal black night sky – and at that single image, it jogged his blurred memory.

Ragged breathing cut through the ghostly silence. A woman, lying inches away from him, legs bare, and hair spread out across a wooden floor. A scream.

Then... nothing. Silence flooded in once more.

A smile twisted onto his darkened lips. The door of the building was open, lying loose on its hinges as he stepped over the doorstep, his heel sounding a metallic click against the broken tiles. Bottles were scatted across empty tables, and his hand closed around one drink, liquid still sloshing in the bottom of the glass as he raised it to his chapped lips.

Before he could take a sip, a voice, quiet, deadly and forced spoke to him across the seemingly deserted room.

"Get the fuck out of here."

His muscles locked, and a burning sensation rushed to his fingertips, itching for a fight. In one motion, his fist closed around the glass in his hands, and he shattered it beneath his palm.

As he raised his eyes, dropping the broken glass slowly to the floor, he saw McCarty standing opposite him.

He pursed his lips. "Not quite the welcome I was expecting."

McCarty closed the distance between them in a second, and his hand went straight to the man's neck. His hand tightened, his fingers flexing before pressing deep into his neck as he threw him into the wall. The man didn't dare try to fight. He focused on trying to breathe, trying to loosen the grip slightly. There were many ways he could die, but by McCarty's hands certainly wasn't going to be one of them.

"You fucking killed her," he spat, his voice seething as his hands moved away from the man's neck, and instead to the collar of his jacket. He took a breath gratefully, but before he could compose himself, McCarty threw him back against the wall. "You fucking _killed _her!"

Their faces were inches away from each other.

He should have been afraid. But the man felt nothing. He only raised one eyebrow coldly. "I didn't realise she meant so much to you."

Spit bubbled against McCarty's lips, and he knew in that moment he couldn't hide from what was about to happen. McCarty's fist hit him squarely in the jaw, and he crumpled against the wall, his body unable to hold himself up any longer.

"You paid me for one thing and one thing only." McCarty said quietly – his breathing heavy and laboured. "And for you to take pleasure in killing her... it's sick."

The man didn't even try to correct him.

Using her – for her body – had its own satisfying qualities. He could remember what it felt like, the power that rushed through him as he lay above her, the trembling body beneath him weak, fragile, and completely helpless. He could even remember the sudden, triumphant sensation that filled him as she pushed herself towards him, unable to deny her own desire.

But killing her... feeling the frightened whimper vibrate in the core of her chest as his movements became rougher, his hands became more demanding, his teeth bit instead of kissed... that had been far more gratifying.

"I am trying very hard not to kill you right now," McCarty's voice was stiff and wooden, like he was forcing himself not to lash out.

He didn't need another motivation, and he pushed himself up from the floor, before stumbling towards the open doorway. McCarty stood, emotionless in the middle of the room, his fists curled dangerously by his sides.

As the man staggered onto the street, he never looked back.

There was only so long that McCarty could control his temper, and he wasn't about to wait and find out just how long that would last. For a moment, a strange feeling ran through the man – one that he wasn't familiar with. He frowned in confusion as an emotion began to fill him, because for a reason that was beyond him, he had found some compassion for McCarty. He felt _sorry _for him.

Not because he no longer had a woman to satisfy his own needs, or sell on to more willing customers, but because McCarty was weak. He'd allowed himself to become attached to another life... one that was fragile and so easily broken.

He had allowed himself to love.

A sickening feeling rose inside of him at the thought, and the compassion was immediately replaced by revulsion. Love made a man weak... it destroyed him.

Humans were never made to rely on someone else – least of all, a woman.

His chest contracted at the thought, at the glimmer of a memory flashing through his mind, and in a blinded haze, he fumbled in the pockets of the grey jacket before taking out a cigarette and a lighter. Breathless and agitated, he pushed the cigarette through his lips, and then flicked the switch on the lighter.

The flame caught the side of his face.

Taking a sudden step back, he cursed at the sidewalk, his fingers pressing into the heated indentation of his cheek. The cigarette almost fell from his lips, and he bit down hard, his determination restored, as he flicked the switch once more, the flames kept away from his face.

The burning, itching sensation still remained, and he exhaled angrily, the smoke clouding his vision. The fumes did little to relax him – as he would have hoped. But they served the purpose; not just as a distraction... they helped him to forget.

He inhaled one last time, before throwing the barely used cigarette into the gutter. To anyone else, it seemed a waste. To him however, discarding something that was unfinished... discarding something untouched... created a comforting, almost smug feeling in the pit of his stomach.

As the cold wind pulled through the empty street again, he hugged the grey hooded jacket tighter around him. The image of the liquid in the bottom of the glass that he'd so easily broken with his fingers sprung into his mind, and he wished he'd drunk it. The harsh, pleasing sensation of the liquor burning down his throat would have helped to warm him inside.

Instead, he was forced to bare the cold – and however much he would have liked to say he was alone, he knew in all truthfulness that he wasn't. Anthony Masen was still here – and he didn't have a fucking clue how to get rid of him.

Although he hated the label, he was a desperate man. There was a void beyond Anthony Masen, the one that contained his memories, his life, his fears, his dreams – and it was a void that was lost to Edward Cullen. But no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many nights he spent such as these deluding himself into the possibility that Anthony Masen may too one day fall into that void, he knew that it was hopeless.

Anthony Masen's presence was just as strong in the back of his mind as it had been ten years ago.

He breathed out an angered sigh as his breath unfurled before him. He should have taken the red head whilst he had the chance. Home wasn't far off – or at least, Masen's house wasn't. He could never describe it as his. He didn't have a home.

As he saw the familiar stone steps of Anthony Masen's driveway come into view, a light to the right made him pause for a moment.

The house next to Anthony Masen's was similar in its shape, except for the blood red flowers now scattered across the window sills. They didn't appear to be in any sort of order. A frown appeared on his face as the light in the front room, that blinding, ethereal light became blocked out.

But not because it had been turned off.

Standing in the front room of the house next to Anthony Masen was a figure, and one that looked very feminine. Aided by the light, his eyes roamed over every curve and arc of her figure, highlighted in her darkened shadow.

He wanted that.

His eyes became focused and determined, and almost detached from reality. His thoughts were no longer consumed by his resentment for Anthony Masen, but the shadowed figure.

Then, he put one foot in front of him, and began to turn towards her house.

_Get the fuck away from her. _

The five single words froze Edward Cullen down to the core. Not because of the venom behind them, or the force at which it locked his muscles, but simply because that voice never spoke. Anthony Masen stayed silent.

Up until now.

"You don't own me," Edward Cullen spat into the wind, and he freed his stiff fingers to take another step towards the house. The figure was still in the window. The light was still there.

_Stop. _

Just that one word... that one simple fucking word and he couldn't move. Hell, he could even breathe. The two competing individuals, each fighting for dominance within one mind had left him immobile.

_Go home Cullen. _Anthony Masen addressed him this time. _She will never be yours._

Edward Cullen scrunched his eyes tightly together, feeling the burn on his cheek ache with the gesture. "She'll never be yours Masen, that's what you fucking mean." He cursed under his breath again, struggling with the effort of keeping himself breathing, let alone trying to move again.

_Go home._

Edward Cullen cursed again. With Anthony Masen's presence in his mind, he could barely even think properly – and the realisation quickly set in that no matter how prominent his desire for her was, he couldn't have her tonight.

He was going to have to fucking obey Masen.

Edward Cullen cursed one last time, before turning back towards Masen's stoned driveway, and his chest filled quickly with oxygen as the fight broke between the two individuals - finally allowing him the air to breathe. His eyebrows furrowed and deep creases appeared on his forehead. The problem of Anthony Masen was getting worse.

As he reached the front door of the house and made to slot the key into the lock, the sound of high heels clicking against a pavement reached his ears. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a blonde, petite woman crossing the road. Her expression was cautious, her face hidden in the neck of his jacket.

If he'd have bothered to look closer, he would have realised that he recognised her from somewhere. But the familiar desire consumed him in barely seconds.

Not even the other part of him, the one with morals, could stop him from taking a step towards her.

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**AN - **Thank you for the support I received with the voting, and thanks to everyone who did vote, this story came second! *victory dance*, woooop! First place went to the lovely Zombie's Run This Town, so if you have a spare moment, I'd suggest going over to her page and checking out her entry.

Hopefully you're not too freaked out by the allusive Edward Cullen, and that you're beginning to understand the weird ways in which his mind words. I'd just like to point out that I DON'T share his views... I just like having fun writing them. :P

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**Reviews = Cookies**


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